--Holmes--

I awoke for the second time that day. Was it even the same day? I had no idea. I felt the lingering haze of whatever drug had been given me. I strained my eyes in the unmitigated darkness. Was I blind? That didn't seem likely.

All at once, I felt pain all across my body, as if my wounds were screaming out for my attention. The back of my head where I had been struck throbbed in tune with my heartbeat. My shoulders felt numb with strain. My chest and back exuded a sharp burning all the way across them, feeling like I had several dozen deep abrasions. I could tell that my face was swollen, as though I had been in a fight and fared poorly. I shifted slightly and suddenly I felt my leg—oh God, my leg! I nearly lost consciousness when I became aware of the sensation of raw nerves and exposed tissue right down to the bone. All the other pains in my body seemed nonexistent in comparison.

With utmost care to insure that my leg would remain perfectly still, I moved to try and sit up. I became aware of many things. My hands were still bound tightly behind my back. I was lying across a rigidly uncomfortable surface that was broken and splintered in some places. The splinters dug into the skin of my lower back. Above me, there were a few small pockets of air and some places where more splinters stabbed at me. A small amount of a damp, grainy substance was in contact with my chest and neck.

In the next split-second, I reacted without judgement or reason as I realized that the grainy substance was dirt and that I was lying in a wooden coffin. I bucked with my entire body jolting my leg miserably in the process. I felt, more than heard my wrist snap as I twisted my hands and tried to rip my arms free of the rough ropes. I only succeeded in cracking the box open even further, allowing more dirt to fall upon me, sickeningly close to the wound in my leg, and into my mouth and eyes. I sputtered and shook my head wretchedly to get rid of the foul substance. I strained to hold my weight up off of my broken wrist, but failed, accepting the terrible pain with a defeated spirit.

Did the cult think me to be dead when they buried me? Apparently not, as they had taken precaution to keep my arms bound. Did Watson even realize that I was missing? Was anyone ever going to uncover me? Would my disappearance and soon my death forever remain unsolved? I hated the thought of that.

My injuries and the crushing pressure of the earth on top of me took away any hope of getting myself out of my predicament. I wondered how long I would have oxygen to breathe.

Please find me Watson, I prayed thinking of my sole chance of surviving the ordeal. Please do something.

--

Marill: Dun dun dun! Ah, considering the title, I assume it was pretty obvious where I was going with this, lol.